by Stuart Woods
“Happy days,” Rick said. He took a breath and started to speak, but Siegel interrupted him.
“Where you from?”
“Originally? A small town in Georgia, but I’ve been out here since I was ten.”
“I thought I heard some accent. I’m from New York, you know.”
“Are you?”
“I’m a Jew. Did you know that?”
Rick shrugged. “Half the people I know are Jews.”
“Some of your best friends?” Siegel smiled a little smile.
Rick took him seriously. “Not really.”
“You got any problems with Jews?”
“Not in the least.”
“Then you got no problem with me?”
“Not personally.”
“With my business?”
“I don’t know what your business is, except you seem to be in business with Jack Dragna, and I guess I pretty much know what he does.”
“Yeah? And how do you know that? You ever done any business with Jack?”
“I used to be a cop. You hear things—not to mention what you read in the papers, and Dragna’s been in the papers from time to time.”
Siegel laughed. “Yeah, I guess he has been. I was hoping you were going to tell me we could do some business together.”
“I’m not in business, Ben. I’m just a studio cop, and part of my job is to keep the studio out of some kinds of business.”
“You said something like that before.”
“Yes, I did, and nothing’s changed.”
“So why did you want to see me?”
“Things have taken a bad turn with your friend Stampano.”
“Oh, shit, not that again.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What’s Chick done now?”
“He got one of Centurion’s actresses pregnant, and he may have tried to kill another one.”
“Oh, come on. Girls in this town get pregnant all the time.”
“Sure they do, and when they’re Centurion’s girls, the studio has to take care of them and clean up after them, which means I have to take care of things.” He noticed that Siegel had not addressed the charge of attempted murder.
“And that’s what you’re doing now.”
“That’s right.”
“What do you want me to do? I haven’t gotten any of your girls pregnant.”
“What I want, what Centurion wants and what all the studios want is for Stampano to stay away from girls who are under contract to them.”
“You mean you expect Chick Stampano, who thinks of himself as God’s gift to women, to stay away from half the girls in LA? Come on, Rick. I can’t put a lock on the guy’s cock.”
“You can if you want to.”
“How’m I gonna do that?”
“Maybe he would be happier back in New York. Surely there’s work for him to do there.”
“That’s not my call.”
“Maybe you could speak to your friends in New York about it.”
“I can mention it, sure, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to do anything about it.”
“Ben, maybe you can explain to them that Stampano’s romantic adventures are making things tough for everybody. The guy’s a loose cannon.”
“You know, I never really knew what that meant—a loose cannon.”
“It goes back to the days of sailing warships. If a cannon wasn’t tied down, what with the ship rolling in the seas, it might roll around the decks, killing people and otherwise doing great damage. You get the picture?”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it.”
“You never know the kind of damage a loose cannon can do until it’s too late. So you have to tie it down or, maybe, kick it overboard before it gets people hurt.”
“Is that some kind of threat?”
“No, Ben. I think you know it’s not. The studios have a legitimate beef against Stampano, and your people are in charge of him.”
“So you want us to tie him down or kick him overboard?”
“They want you to do whatever it takes to end the problem.”
“And what are they going to do for us?”
“You deal with Stampano, and everybody benefits.”
“And how do we benefit?”
“He’s aboard your ship. You deal with him, and he doesn’t bump into your people and your businesses.” Rick had an idea. “You know, Ben, I don’t know Stampano well, but I know the type.”
“What type is that?”
“I’ve seen tough guys like Stampano brought into a police station and charged with something, and first thing you know, they’re singing like a bird to keep themselves out of jail.”
Siegel shrugged. “Our people don’t do that,” he said, as if stating a simple fact.
“One of these days, one of them will, and Stampano strikes me as the type.” It wouldn’t hurt to plant a few seeds of doubt in Siegel’s mind.
“If you’re running a legitimate business like I am, you don’t have to worry about that stuff.”
“Come on, Ben, how long do you think Stampano would last with a legitimate business? He goes around beating up girls, getting them pregnant, then taking a powder. Any legit business would fire him out of hand. What does it say about your business that you keep somebody like that on the payroll?”
Siegel looked into his glass and rattled the ice. “Chick works for a liquor distributor that I have an interest in, that’s all.”
Rick tried another tack. “I think I get it,” he said.
“Get what?”
“He’s somebody’s cousin or nephew, right? Somebody important enough not to insult by dealing with him.”
“Chick has friends.”
“People like Chick don’t have friends, they just have relatives.”
Siegel finished off his drink and set down his glass. “Okay, I’ll talk to New York, but I’m not making any promises.”
Rick finished his drink, too. “Do what you can, Ben. It’ll make life easier for everybody.”
They shook hands and Rick let himself out of the club. He saw a pay phone across the street and headed for it.
33
RICK CALLED THE LAPD and asked to speak to Ben Morrison, his acquaintance who handled organized crime.
“Detective Morrison.”
“Ben, it’s Rick Barron.”
“Hi, Rick. What’s up?”
“I’d like to buy you a drink.”
“Why?”
“Some business to discuss. Could be profitable.”
“When?”
“How about right now? It’s after work.”
“Jimmy’s in half an hour?”
“Good. See you then.” Rick hung up and called Clete Barrow. “Evening. How about some dinner?”
“I’m not drinking, so I don’t need my hand held.”
“Shucks, I just wanted to have dinner with a movie star, and you’re the only one available.”
“Well, since you put it that way. Brown Derby?”
“How’d you like to experience a little local color?”
“Why not?”
“Remember the gun shop Al’s, on Melrose?”
“Sure.”
“Right across the street, place called Jimmy’s. It’s a cop bar, and they have simple but decent food.”
“When?”
“An hour?”
“See you there.”
Rick hung up and went back to his car. He sat there for a few minutes, thinking, then he started the car and drove to Jimmy’s.
The place was noisy, filled with police officers—some of them off-duty—and cigarette smoke. He spoke with half a dozen cops he knew at the bar, fending off jibes about his new line of work and buying some drinks, then he found an empty booth at the back where he could still see the door. A waiter made a halfhearted pass at the booth, but Rick put him off. “When my friend gets here,” he said, “and I’m paying.” As if Ben Morrison would reach for a check.
Ben showed up ten minute
s later, worked his way down the bar, and finally settled into the booth with Rick. A waiter appeared.
“A double Johnnie Walker Black, neat,” Ben said. He pointed at Rick. “Hollywood Joe here is buying.”
“Old Crow, ice, no water,” Rick said.
Ben tossed his hat onto the seat beside him and slicked back his hair. He was fortyish, thicker around the middle than he used to be and with a little less hair to slick back. “So, what? You’re gonna make me rich and famous?”
“Just a little more comfortable,” Rick said. “You might be able to figure a way to get a promotion out of it.”
“Yeah, sure,” Ben snorted. “I made sergeant eight years ago, and that’s it for me, pal. I got eight more years till pension, and I’m going to sit it out keeping tabs on the organizational activities of spics, niggers and goombahs.”
“I knew there was crime to be found among our Spanish and darker friends, but I didn’t know it was organized.”
“Oh, there’s a thriving marijuana trade among the wetbacks, and the darkies have learned to steal cars. We got an actual ring going out there.”
“How’s it going with our Italian community?”
“Jack Dragna has learned from experience. He’s trying to make it look legit where he can, which makes it harder for me, but he’s not fooling anybody. Bugsy Siegel is shoving him aside, anyway, and he apparently has Luciano’s backing.”
The drinks arrived and they raised their glasses.
“How many guys working for you, Ben?”
“I’ve got two detectives, and I can borrow bodies as needed.”
“That’s not much.”
“You’re telling me! The department is going to go on ignoring organized crime, and one day that attitude is going to rise up and bite them on the ass.”
“Last time I talked to you, you were interested in one of Jack’s minions, Chick Stampano.”
“I’m still interested. How about you?”
“More than ever,” Rick said.
“Why?”
“He’s causing serious problems for the studios.”
“That’s gotta mean women. I heard about the thing with the girl over at Metro.”
“It’s that sort of thing, but it’s multiplying and spreading. Have you got anything on this guy?”
“Nothing I could nail him for. I mean, he’s got a no-show job at Siegel’s and Dragna’s wholesale liquor business, but that’s not a crime.”
“Is he important to you as a means of getting at Jack or Ben Siegel?”
“He could know a lot. I hear he’s got a connection to somebody big in New York who’s watching over him. He got sent out here because he was doing the same stuff there that he’s doing here. He’s got a weakness for women, and he likes them bruised.”
“Aye, there’s the rub.”
“Don’t start talking like Long John Silver. I’ll think you’ve gone queer on me.”
“Fuck you, it’s Shakespeare. I think.”
Ben laughed. “So what do you want to do about Chickey baby?”
Rick shrugged. “I tend to think it would be a public service if somebody found him a cell at Quentin.”
“Who could argue with that?” Ben took a slug of his scotch. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know, maybe he could somehow become attached to some unsolved case that’s still open?”
“Or we could just wait awhile and he’ll kill some girl.”
“I think he’s already tried,” Rick said.
Ben looked interested. “Anybody I know?”
“A contract player.”
“Details?”
“I think he shot her up with morphine, then slashed her wrists for her. She’d have bled to death on her bathroom floor if her roommate hadn’t called it in.”
“You keep saying, ‘I think.’ ”
“If I could prove it, I wouldn’t be offering you a bonus for doing your job.”
“How much of a bonus?”
“A grand, plus expenses.”
“My price for railroading innocent goombahs is five grand.”
“Two and a half, Ben. Don’t push it.”
“You got any ideas on how to accomplish this?”
“Well, if I were doing it myself, I’d round up four or five of the LAPD’s biggest and best, give ’em a hundred apiece to beat the guy to within an inch of his life, then charge him with aggravated assault on a police officer. That ought to get him a dime upstate, don’t you think?”
Ben shook his head. “Nah, Jack Dragna’s got enough of our upper ranks on his payroll to get that tossed.”
“I was hoping you might come up with something more subtle, something that would stick—something so disgusting that even the LAPD and the DA’s office couldn’t look the other way.”
“What, plant a Boy Scout in his bedroom?”
“More like a troop of Boy Scouts, all oiled up and ready.”
“Something that would humiliate him before his peers?”
“Something so bad that Siegel and Dragna couldn’t kick back. He’s been talked to once about this, and I talked to Ben Siegel a second time this afternoon.”
“So, something bad happens to Chickey, they look at you.”
“Probably, unless you’re ingenious enough to do this so well that they’ll never suspect me.”
“Ingenuity comes high.”
“All right, three grand, and when you have a plan, talk to me about it and I’ll give you a down payment and expense money.”
“Let me sleep on it,” the cop said.
“Something else, Ben: You know anything about the deaths of John Kean and his wife? He had my job before I did.”
Ben shrugged. “Sure, I heard about it. I know the sergeant who ran the investigation.”
“What was his off-the-record opinion? Could it have been a double murder?”
Ben shook his head. “From what I heard, it was a straight older-man, younger-wife murder/suicide. This guy reckoned Mrs. Kean was doing the horizontal jitterbug with some young stud; Kean confronted her, she spat it in his face, and he reacted badly. When he realized what he’d done, he put a bullet in his own head rather than face the consequences.”
“That’s an old story.”
“It is.”
“Did he have any ideas on who the young stud was?” Rick had an idea.
“He didn’t turn up anybody.”
“I think it was Stampano,” Rick said.
“You got Stampano on the brain,” Ben replied. “You got anything to back that up?”
“Not that I’m ready to talk about.”
They both became aware that the whole of Jimmy’s had suddenly gone silent. They looked toward the door, where Clete Barrow was standing, resplendent in a double-breasted blue blazer with brass buttons, vanilla ice cream–colored trousers and brown and white wingtips.
“Jesus, a movie star,” Ben said. “Whatshisface.”
“He’s with me,” Rick said. “Beat it.”
Ben tossed off the remainder of his scotch. “You’re amazing, boy. I’ll get back to you.”
“Bye-bye.” Rick waved to get Clete’s attention, and the actor made his way to the booth.
“I haven’t made an entrance like that since my last time treading the boards in the West End,” he said.
34
THE DRINKS WERE SET ON the table. Clete seemed deep in thought, which was unlike him.
“Something on your mind?” Rick asked.
Clete lifted his head, took a swig of his drink and looked at Rick. “You haven’t heard the news, have you?”
“What news?”
“I heard it on the car radio, on the way over. The Germans and the Russians have signed a non-aggression treaty.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Rick said. “Hitler hates the Communists, and they hate him, especially after the German bombings in the Spanish Civil War.”
“It makes all the sense in the world, from their point of view,”
Clete said. “To Stalin, it means that he’s got Hitler off his back, at least long enough for him to build up his forces. To Hitler, it means that he’s free to do whatever he wants in Europe without Soviet interference—that England and France can’t count on the Soviet Union in the event of war with Germany.”
There was a roar of laughter from the bar.
“Listen to them,” Clete said, nodding at the group. “They don’t know what’s happening to them, do they?”
“Neither do I,” Rick said. “What’s happening to them?”
“We’re all going to be at war soon,” Clete said. “Half the men under thirty in this room are going to die in it.”
Rick took a gulp of his drink. “That’s sort of a pessimistic point of view, isn’t it?” He was, after all, under thirty.
“Nobody in this country seems even to remember the last war. England lost a million men—the cream of a generation.”
“This country is not going to war,” Rick said. “Even Roosevelt says that.”
“Well, my country is, and soon. I don’t see how it can be stopped, not with Chamberlain giving Hitler whatever he wants. God, if only Churchill were in charge.”
Rick was at a loss. “Do you think England can win a war against Germany?”
“I think we can. We’ve got only ten divisions, but the French have ninety. Together, that makes us equal to the Germans’ hundred divisions. They’re way ahead in aircraft and artillery and training, though. Have you read Churchill’s speeches?”
“No.”
“I get the Times by post. Churchill’s been warning the government for years to increase aircraft production, but they’ve ignored him, for the most part.” Clete waved at the bartender for another drink. “The Russians have a huge army, but now they’re out of play.”
“What’s going to happen next?”
“I’m going to get roaring drunk, that’s what’s going to happen next.”
Rick sighed. “Well, one of us better stay sober.” He handed Clete a menu. “I recommend the meat loaf,” he said.
Clete looked astonished. “What the fuck is meat loaf?”
RICK DUMPED THE UNCONSCIOUS movie star on his bed, pulled off his shoes and got his jacket off. He threw a blanket over him, walked back into Clete’s living room and called Eddie Harris.
“Hello?” Eddie didn’t sound sleepy.